


Where the Darkest of Roses Bloom

by Solanaceae



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Character, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: A peace treaty is reached between Gondor and Near Harad, ending the final conflict of the War of the Ring. Gaelien, youngest child of Aragorn and Arwen, is called back to Minas Tirith from her captainship in South Gondor and asked to enter a marriage with the heir of the king of Harad.





	Where the Darkest of Roses Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> This began as a short fic inspired by a prompt Elleth left for... I think it was Innumerable Stars? Anyways, it got way out of hand and spiraled into this two-part monstrosity. So now it's a New Year's present for Elleth and also anyone else who's ever wanted to see post-War of the Ring lesbians.
> 
> Many thanks to Quinn for looking this over! Any remaining mistakes are mine. Fic and chapter titles from _My Sweet Mystery_ by The Dark Element.

At the hazy edges of Gaelien’s memories, the first thing that surfaced was a recollection of golden hair spilling over the edge of her cradle, accompanied by the scent of roses. When she asked about it as a child, Eldarion told her in that self-important manner he had that she was making it up, but her mother spoke of a halfling girl with hair like the sun who had brought clippings from her father’s best rosebush to plant in the royal gardens.

_She came when you were but a babe,_ Arwen told her, and Aragorn set her on his knee and told her of a faraway land called the _Shire_ , where halflings lived, where the Ringbearer and his faithful companions had come from to save everyone from the shadow of Sauron.

Years later and miles away from Minas Tirith, she still woke sometimes to the darkness of her tent, swearing she could smell roses.

Those childhood tales were the ones she returned to in her mind: heroism in the face of overwhelming darkness, the light of good shining star-like through the mists of evil. In a way, the task of her father and his companions had been simpler: to fight Sauron and his Orcs, an easily named and compartmentalized evil. Harder to reason through seeing the faces of those who could be your kin fall beneath your sword—men and women in clothing strange and colorful, but whose eyes held the same terror that sang in your own heart.

***

**Early June, 53 Fourth Age**

“Captain.” A soldier lifted the flap of the command tent. Gaelien turned, brushing her hair out of her face.

“What is it?”

“A summons from Minas Tirith.” He handed her a tightly wound scroll tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The paper was thick and of high quality, and she did not need to look at the seal to know that it came from her mother’s desk.

“Thank you,” Gaelien said, and the soldier exited, bowing as he went. She waited until the flap had closed behind him before undoing the ribbon and spreading the letter out on the table. It was short and to the point.

_Gaelien—_

_A peace agreement has been reached during diplomatic talks between your father and King Valin of Near Harad. The order to withdraw to South Ithilien will come soon, but as part of the treaty, your presence in Minas Tirith is requested. Make haste to return._

Gaelien read it once, then twice, then released the edges to let it spring back into a curled shape. She stood in silence for a moment, the only sound in the still tent the measured exhale of breath, then turned to pack her things.

***

She left her battalion under control of her second-in-command and rode to Minas Tirith, leaving before the sun had set and riding through a good portion of the night. Two or three hours past midnight, she stopped to let her horse rest and stood sleepless in the shadow of a spindly tree that stubbornly clung to the side of the packed dirt road.

When she had read her mother’s letter, the world had seemed, for a moment, unmoored—and had not entirely resettled in her mind, even now. Half a century of conflict with Harad, poised to end, and she, with her soldiers and all the rest of the gilded and gleaming military arm of Gondor, suddenly caught in the net of peace.

(And what role could she possibly play in securing this peace, if not from the battlefield? Why was she called back?)

She rode through South Ithilien, to Osgiliath and across the river. It was nearing midday, and the white walls of Minas Tirith reflected the sun as she approached. She dreamed of this city, sometimes, sitting like a jewel against the Rammas Echor. This city, her birthplace and her home and the place her heart always yearned to return to.

She left her horse at the stables and walked the rest of the way through the upper part of the city, to the Citadel. One of her mother’s handmaidens met her at the doors and led her to a small council room, where her mother waited for her.

“Gaelien,” Arwen said, rising from her seat, a warm smile on her face. “My thanks for coming with such haste.”

“With the promise of peace, what else could I do but hurry?” She came to her mother’s side, looking down at the map of Gondor and the surrounding territories spread out across the varnished wood of the table. “What are the terms of the treaty?”

Arwen set down one silver pin, then another, piercing the parchment of the map. She stretched a thread between them, delineating as she spoke. “The territory of Umbar still lies under your sister’s control, and further negotiations are required to determine the western border of Umbar with Near Harad. King Valin assures us that the factions present in Far Harad pay tribute to him, and that he can control them. Gondor now claims that part of South Gondor that lies north of the Harnen, between the Harad Road and the sea. Everything to the east of the Harad Road will belong to Near Harad.”

“Why did you call me back here? Surely it was not merely to review territory changes.”

“No indeed.” Arwen touched her hand fleetingly. Gaelien’s stomach dropped before the words even emerged, heard her mother speak as though across a great distance. “As part of the treaty, we have arranged a marriage with the prince of Harad.”

“A marriage,” Gaelien repeated flatly.

“Your marriage,” Arwen added unnecessarily.

“Mother, I have no desire to marry a _man—_ let alone one of Harad.”

“A marriage will secure our alliance in a way that mere words cannot. It is a common ground between us, a reason to maintain the peace.” A flicker of distress passed over Arwen’s face. “Believe me, Gaelien, I do not like the thought of using my daughter as a pawn on the boards of kings.”

What else _had_ she been all this time as a soldier, if not a pawn for kings? But that thought, bitter as it was, somewhat cooled the anger that had flared in her chest. She understood following orders. She understood thinking only about the greater good.

“Think on it,” her mother said into Gaelien’s silence, voice unbearably gentle. “We will not force you into anything.”

She did not trust her tongue to not spit thorned words out, and so she stood, saying nothing, and left the room.

***

Gaelien associated the smell of pipeweed with her father strongly; when he grew harried with court politics or spent the night sunk in memory, he would retreat behind billowing clouds of smoke from leaves imported from the Shire.

It was no surprise, then, to catch the familiar scent wafting through an open window that evening, to peer out and see Aragorn leaning on the railing of the balcony, silhouette dark against the dusk sky. She hesitated for a moment, then retreated from the window, heading for the door that led out onto the balcony.

She approached her father near-silently—she tended to go barefoot when she could, and was so now—but he must have heard her approach. “Gaelien,” he said without turning.

She stopped, curling her toes against the cold stone floor. Something about this scene made her feel like a small child again, running to her father with her latest scraped knee. “Father.”

“Your mother told you of the treaty, then?” Now he did turn, removing the pipe from his mouth to blow a stream of smoke. In the dim light, out of his courtly robes, her father looked like someone else, someone rugged and rough at the edges and far more used to battle than peace. She knew the stories of Strider, Ranger of the North, and Thorongil, mysterious ally of Gondor and Rohan. In moments such as these, her father looked more the part of a traveling hero than that of a king.

“She told me,” Gaelien said, and marveled that her voice stayed even.

“We will not force you into anything. This should be your choice, freely made.” Aragorn paused, then put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him fully. “But know that much rests on your decision.”

A flicker of understanding: Gondor stood mere steps from the summit of a mountain that Aragorn had been ascending for his entire life. To achieve a lasting peace, to have Middle-earth no longer embroiled in constant battle—that goal was within reach, at last.

“Your peace treaty,” she said.

“Do you resent the treaty?” A note of chiding in his voice, and Gaelien bristled.

“ _No_ , Father, I would never resent peace, not when that means my soldiers will not have to die anymore.”

He paused, then said, “Always thinking of your soldiers, Gaelien. You are a fine commander.”

“Always thinking of _Gondor_ ,” she snapped. “Gondor and its people. I am a fine and obedient _follower_. I fight where I am told to fight and I marry who I am told to marry.”

“This is bitter to you,” he said. It was not a question.

“ _You_ married for love,” she said, hating how she sounded like a whining child. “Eldarion is promised to none. Aradien has her Corsair lover, and Arodien may live unmarried all her life. Why must _I_ be the one to set aside everything time and time again to serve this realm?”

Instead of answering, Aragorn touched his lips to her forehead, his beard brushing her skin. “Wait and see what will come, Gaelien. Perhaps the prince of Harad will be to your liking.”

_Unlikely_ , she thought, but bit her tongue and inclined her head.

***

**Late December, 53 Fourth Age**

The winter air burned Gaelien’s cheeks, stray needles of snow whipping into her face from time to time as the wind shifted direction. Her mother stood at her side, dressed all in gray and white with a glittering net of pale jewels thrown over her dark hair.

A few paces behind them, her sister Arodien stood, hands scrubbed clean of ink stains for once. The twins—close to identical in appearance—were nearing their fortieth year and took after their father in the shape of their jaw and the line of their nose, but they had the piercing gray eyes of their mother. Aradien, the younger by two minutes, had not come to Minas Tirith from her station in Umbar to see the emissary of Harad arrive in the city.

Other than the three of them, several guards flanked them, these in full armor. Gaelien felt strangely naked beside them; she had elected to wear the black and silver of the Citadel instead, as she supposed her normal armor would be frowned upon.

Over the edge of the wall, she saw a flicker of red ascending through the falling snow, bright against the white stone of the city. Instinctively, her fist tightened at the sight of the black snake on a red field, the flag of Harad she had been taught to be wary of all her life. That this convoy, flying the flag of Gondor’s ancestral enemies, had entered Minas Tirith itself—

She cut that thought off before it was fully formed. There was no use dwelling on such things; not when she was facing the prospect of _marrying_ one of those ancestral enemies.

A few minutes longer, and then seven figures approached down the walkway, escorted by yet more guards in black and silver. The Haradrim soldiers wore earthy colors, brown and tan, with scraps of color added: red silk tied around arms or heads, red designs stitched into their clothing. In the center of the six soldiers walked a woman, dressed in rich, dark red fabric that hung heavy in the chill wind. A red veil covered her face.

The group drew to a halt before Gaelien, who suddenly realized that she was probably expected to welcome them.

Arwen broke the silence before she could make a fool of herself by attempting diplomacy. “Minas Tirith welcomes you as representatives of Near Harad. Might I inquire as to who you are?” The last bit directed at the woman in the center of the group.

The woman lifted her veil, tucking it back over her hair and revealing earth-dark skin and eyes that made Gaelien think of honey: gold-brown and glowing with faint warmth. “I am the one you requested,” she said, voice low and smooth.

“We were given to understand,” Arwen said slowly, “that the prince of Near Harad would be coming to Minas Tirith.”

A spark of poorly concealed irritation in the woman’s eyes. “I am the heir of King Valin. He has no other children.”

“That is not what our reports of you have said.”

“Your reports are somewhat outdated, then. I have been who I am—all my life, but particularly for the past ten years. Will you still uphold your promise?”

“We will,” Gaelien said, voice steadier than she felt.

The woman’s gaze turned on her, and Gaelien nearly shivered. She was _beautiful_ , in a wild and strange way that had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with how her voice carried without her seeming to raise it, how her barely restrained emotions were a thin thread of fire racing under her words.

She swallowed, then added, “The kin of Elessar will keep their word.”

“And you are?” the woman asked.

“Gaelien.” A flash of strange boldness. “The one whose hand you were promised. I have no intention of renouncing that.”

She got a near-imperceptible smile in response. “Well met, Gaelien of Minas Tirith. I am Urvi of Gahana, or Near Harad, in your tongue.”

“You must be cold, Urvi of Gahana,” Arodien said, stepping forward. “Shall we move inside to continue this parlay?”

Valar bless her sister and her sense. Gaelien shot her a grateful look as Urvi said, “That would be much appreciated.”

***

Inside, the royal cook, an older woman named Saeril, had laid out the best of her craft on the long table in the main dining room. Aragorn had traveled to Eldarion in Arnor only a week prior to attend to some emergency, so Arwen sat at the head of the table, with Gaelien to her right and Urvi beside Gaelien.

The food was excellent, but Gaelien found she had little appetite. After some time, the others contrived excuses one by one to slip away. Gaelien knew what they were doing, and doubtless they knew that she knew, but it seemed a necessary pantomime. Eventually, of course, only she and Urvi were left at the table. The Haradrim guard stood at the far end of the hall, a group of scarlet-clothed shadows.

Gaelien cleared her throat and internally cursed her lack of diplomatic skill. “Is the weather here much colder than you are used to?”

“Is this your normal method of courting, to speak on the weather?” Urvi asked, and Gaelien felt a hot flush creep across her cheeks.

“You are welcome to speak of what you will,” she said, perhaps a bit more sharply than she ought.

“Are you the captain of Gondor I have heard so much about?” Urvi mused. Gaelien, thrown off guard, could not keep her surprise from momentarily showing.

“You’ve heard tell of me?”

“Our reports of your comings and goings seem to be more accurate than yours are of ours.” Was that amusement, sparkling in her eyes? “Of course I’ve heard of you. You’ve been quite the thorn in our side. And who else would my father request in marriage but that thorn?”

Gaelien blinked, unsure how to respond.

“Tell me.” Urvi leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. “How does a captain of the shining Gondorian army set aside her command to marry an enemy?”

“I have set aside nothing. I still hold my rank.”

Urvi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, something flashing across her face, and Gaelien bit her tongue as she realized she had not denied Urvi’s self-identification— _enemy_.

While she was still casting about for something to say, Urvi spoke again. “Your captainship is something you hold dear, then.”

“I am not—I have no special talents, no great destiny. My brother is to be the king of the Reunited Kingdoms. Aradien already governs all of the Umbarian territories, and Arodien is the scholar-princess who will keep this realm’s knowledge alive. I am… skilled in battle, perhaps, but…” She trailed off.

“But?”

“There are no wars to fight. Not anymore.”

“The last war was the one against my people.” Urvi’s gaze was sharp. “Do you begrudge the peace?”

“No!” Gaelien clenched her fists. Why did people keep _asking_ her this, as if she were some sort of warmonger? “I have never wished for battle, I simply found that it suited me well when it came. But a sword can only be hung up on the mantle for so long before it begins to rust. And what use to anyone is a rusted blade?”

“Blades can be remade. Many other things are forged in Gondor, not all of them for war.”

_I do not wish to be remade_. She was sure the thought showed on her face, but she forced herself to relax her hands, offer a strained attempt at a smile. This verbal play was beyond her usual skill set. “Is trade to be part of the treaty, then?”

“Believe it or not, Gahana also forges things other than machines of war.” Before she could say anything in response, Urvi stood, and her guards snapped to attention. “Thank you kindly for your welcome of me, Gaelien of Minas Tirith.”

Gaelien blinked. This conversation felt like trying to keep her footing on the deck of a ship rocking in a storm. She was certain she had said or done something wrong. “Are you leaving?”

“To my room, yes. Goodnight.”

Urvi lowered her red veil over her face again, hiding her dark eyes behind the shifting, shadowed color, and swept out of the room with her guards in tow. A servant who had been hovering near the door bowed low and led them around the corner, presumably to the guest quarters.

Gaelien rubbed her temples, letting out a long, ragged breath. “Elbereth,” she muttered, and then a few more choice curses that would have had her mother rapping her knuckles had she been a decade or two younger.

***

“It isn’t going to work out.” Gaelien paced back and forth across the deserted hallway, hands knotted behind her back. Her sister sat on a bench, sketching what looked like an architectural plan in her notebook. Arodien tended to stay up late wandering the halls and settling in different nooks, writing or drawing or plotting some new political maneuver; Gaelien had hunted her down as soon as she could following dinner.

“It’s awfully early to be saying that already,” Arodien said, not looking up from her work.

“She hates me! She hates—she hates _Gondor_ , and everything I stand for.”

“As you hated her land only a handful of months ago.”

“And perhaps still do!” The words burst from her louder than she meant them to, and Arodien’s eyes flashed up, darting around the empty hall. Gaelien glanced around as well, relieved to find there was no one there to hear her.

“Come, Gaelien. You are thirty-two. Act as though you have some sense.” Despite her words, Arodien’s voice was gentle. “A marriage with you was part of the deciding factor in the signing of the treaty. If two kings can set aside their hatred of each other, surely their daughters can as well.”

“I know.” Gaelien’s fists, already impossibly tight, felt like they might tear apart if she clenched them any harder. “I _know_ how much this matters.”

“I do not mean to cause you pain, sister.” Arodien rose, setting aside her papers, and moved to place her hand on Gaelien’s arm. “There comes a time for all of us when we must set aside ourselves to serve Gondor. This is your time.”

Gaelien let out a long breath, fixed her eyes on the floor. “I have served Gondor all my life in war,” she said dully.

“And now in peace.”

“I do not know if I am _suited_ to peace, Arodien.” She looked up. Arodien’s pale eyes were filled with sympathy. “I do not know what my place is now.”

Instead of answering, Arodien hugged her, arms tight around Gaelien’s shoulders. Gaelien hesitated, then hugged her back, burying her face in her sister’s shoulder and inhaling the soft scent of lavender and ink.

“You will find your place,” Arodien whispered, and Gaelien nodded, wishing she could believe her.

***

By the terms of the treaty, Gaelien had two months after Urvi’s arrival to make a decision, and Urvi had a month following that to return an answer. The days of winter were short and cold, and while Gaelien did not miss sleeping in a tent in the snow, part of her felt stifled in the hearthfire warmth behind the thick stone walls of the House of Kings. Urvi spent most of her time in the archives, which Gaelien heard fascinated her, but they ate dinner together every night, whether alone together or with others of the court. Their conversation was always strained, perfectly polite, and—after that disastrous first time—never more than scratched the surface of politics.

It was nearly four weeks after Urvi’s arrival when Gaelien made her way down to the archives, curious as to what her guest had found so entrancing down here in the dust. Even as a child, she had never understood why Arodien enjoyed reading down here; her tutors had often encouraged her to be more studious, but she had learned what was required of her and fled her desk for horseback as soon as she could.

The assistant archivist that day was Pelinel, a rotund person with long hair and an easy smile. They were shelving a thick tome when Gaelien eased her way down the stairs, feeling out of place and more unsettled than she ever had on the battlefield. It was too _quiet_ down here, the stone walls too heavy, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe right.

“Princess,” Pelinel said, looking surprised, and Gaelien held a finger to her lips.

“Just checking in on our guest,” she whispered, and they nodded, gesturing silently to where candlelight flickered around the corner.

Gaelien prided herself on being able to move silently, almost as silently as an elf. She drew on that now, making her way shadow-like to the corner, pressing against the wall and peering into the space beyond.

Urvi sat at a small stone table, the surface of which was piled high with scrolls and books. Her veil—a pale blue, today—was pulled back from her face, draped over her hair, and her attention was wholly fixed on the text she was reading. Every now and then, she would set the book down and turn to reference another, or make a mark on the parchment she had beside her. The glow from the candle was a warm halo around her, illuminating her dark skin, picking out the gold in her eyes.

Gaelien watched for a few moments longer, then withdrew, retreating back towards the stairs. She gestured for Pelinel to come closer. “What is she reading?” she whispered.

If they were surprised that she was asking them rather than approaching Urvi herself, their face gave no sign of it. “Astronomical observations from Anardil’s day.” At Gaelien’s blank look, they sighed and said, “Fifth king of Gondor, around a century into the Third Age. Grandfather of Rómendacil the first?”

“Yes,” Gaelien said. She did, in fact, recall Rómendacil—the first conflict with the Easterlings had been during his time. (Military history had been the only interesting history to her, much to the frustration of her old tutors.) “What other subjects does she request?”

“Botany, linguistics, other naturalist studies. She says our texts on anatomy and physiology are terribly outdated and that our understanding of mathematics is primitive.” They looked aggrieved at that.

Had Gaelien been less charitable, she might have suspected Urvi of coming down here to find out all of Gondor’s diplomatic and military secrets to report back to the king of Near Harad. It was well that she was _quite_ charitable, and had not at all considered that a possibility. Still, if she had, she would certainly have been surprised at this revelation.

“Thank you,” she said to Pelinel. “If she causes any trouble, send word.”

***

“The archivists are always watching me,” Urvi told Gaelien over dinner one night. “I can hardly focus with them breathing down my neck.”

“What are you trying to focus on?” Gaelien asked, trying to sound as though she had not snuck down into the archives to spy on Urvi.

“Your library holds observations of the heavens and the natural world dating back thousands of years. Such a wealth of knowledge is priceless, but you lock it up in dusty rooms.” That was disapproval, in Urvi’s voice. Gaelien was getting better at reading her, or so she liked to think.

“I can speak to them about letting you alone,” she ventured, and Urvi gave her a small smile.

“I would greatly appreciate that.”

There. She had done something right. Emboldened, she pressed onwards: “Is there aught else you need? I do not wish anything to be withheld that should not be.”

“I do have a question. They call me Uirdis,” Urvi said. “What does it mean?”

Gaelien blinked at the sudden subject change. She had been aware that Urvi had been given a name, but that was hardly uncommon. “It comes from _uir,_ which is eternity.”

“Why?”

“I—” Where was this going? “I don’t think it has an particular significance. It merely sounds like your name.”

The corner of Urvi’s mouth twitched—smile or frown, it was hard to tell. “Is my tongue so difficult to pronounce?”

“I do not think it is that—well, perhaps in part. But giving names in our own language to those who marry into the royal family has happened for centuries. It is an act of acceptance, I suppose.”

“Or assimilation. I do not wish to lose Gahana to this land of pale-skinned strangers.” Urvi’s voice was harsh.

“You’re not,” Gaelien said, startled. She thought she had been doing well. Why had the conversation shifted to anger so abruptly? “This is just an alliance. No one is _losing_ anything, that’s the entire purpose—”

But Urvi had already turned away, her cold silence signaling that the conversation was over and that Gaelien had somehow, once again, offended without meaning to.

Anger—at herself, at the situation—rose in Gaelien’s chest. She stabbed at her food, knife loud against the plate, then tossed her utensils aside with a clatter and pushed her chair back from the table.

“Goodnight,” she said, summoning her best imitation of Urvi’s own frostiness, then swept out of the room.

***

“You are foolish,” Arodien proclaimed when Gaelien told her of what had happened.

Gaelien frowned. “How so?”

“ _Think_ for a moment of how she feels,” her sister said, setting her quill down and turning in her seat to face Gaelien. The papers on her desk fluttered for a moment in a sudden breeze through the open window—why Arodien consistently kept the window open in the dead of winter was a mystery to all—and Arodien stilled them with her hand. “She is in a strange land, alone, and she has come here on behalf of her own people. There is a great responsibility riding on her shoulders, Gaelien.”

_And likewise on mine_ , she thought, but it was a petulant thought. She felt like a child being chastised for thoughtlessness.

“So I should apologize,” she said.

“With more tact than that, yes. That would be a start.”

“Then what should I do to regain her trust?”

Her sister raised an eyebrow. “I have faith that you will come up with something.”

***

Gaelien thought on it for a day and a half, then knocked on Urvi’s door near sundown. She waited for several seconds that felt much longer than they were before she heard footsteps from the other side, approaching.

“Can we speak?” she asked when Urvi opened her door a crack, revealing only a slice of her face, one golden-brown eye.

“We are speaking,” Urvi said, but opened the door wide enough to let her in.

Gaelien entered. She had not yet been in Urvi’s quarters, and what she saw now surprised her. The walls were draped with sheer cloth in every warm color she could have thought up, cocooning the space with the colors of the desert and fire. The furniture had been moved out and replaced with thick rugs and cushions in rich, deep colors piled up in the corners. It felt like she had stepped into a new place, one at once familiar and utterly alien.

“Well?” Urvi stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. She wore a flowing yellow robe that seemed more suited to summer than the snow that currently covered the ground outside. Through the layers of sheer cloth, Gaelien could see the outline of Urvi’s thigh, the curve of her hip. She cut her eyes away, embarrassed, then remembered that they were to be married and looked back, cheeks on fire, and cleared her throat.

“Your room is lovely,” she said.

Urvi looked amused, which was better than her former irritation. “Thank you.”

A pause, during which Gaelien searched desperately for some sort of conversational transition before blurting out, “I wanted to ask you for a name in your language.”

“A name?” Urvi repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Gaelien stammered for a moment. “If my people call you Uirdis to suit their tongues, then I wish to take a name that suits yours. It is only fair.”

“If you ask only to make things _fair_ —”

“No,” Gaelien said hastily. “I truly feel that it is… it is right. And if we are to be married…” She did not know how to end that. “It seems right to me,” she finished lamely.

Urvi considered this. “Gita,” she said at last.

Gaelien nodded, tentative. “What does it mean?”

“In my language, it means song, or something with melody.”

“That’s—thank you. That’s beautiful.” She took a deep breath. “And I apologize if I offended you, the other night.”

Urvi took a step closer, and Gaelien caught the warm scent of spice and sandalwood. “And I apologize for being so quick to anger. You and your people have been nothing but hospitable to me. I hope that someday you might travel to Gahana, so I may repay you.” She offered a small smile, looking more tentative than Gaelien had seen her yet, and held out a hand.

_A great responsibility riding on her shoulders_ , Gaelien thought, then took the offered hand. Urvi tugged her closer. Caught off guard, Gaelien stepped forward unthinkingly, only to find herself face-to-face with the other woman—and she herself was tall, with her lineage of Númenórean and Elven blood, but Urvi was taller by enough that Gaelien had to look up to meet her honey-gold eyes.

Those eyes now scrutinized her, and Gaelien was suddenly aware of every flaw in her face, from the size of her nose to the thin scar that ran down her right temple. Before she could pull away, Urvi reached up with her other hand, trailing her finger down Gaelien’s cheek. Gaelien shivered as heat raced under her skin.

“You know,” Urvi said, voice low, “I have heard tell for years of the captain of Gondor, with eyes like a storm and fearlessness keener still than her sword.”

“I’m not fearless,” Gaelien whispered.

“What do you fear?” There was fire in Urvi’s gaze, slow-burning embers full of heat.

_No longer being useful. No longer being worth something._ She shook her head wordlessly.

Urvi turned Gaelien’s hand over, facing her palm to the ceiling. Her fingers, delicate and surprisingly soft, ran across the inside of Gaelien’s hand, over the calluses printed there from years of wielding a sword. She considered them, as though trying to read some secret message there, before releasing her.

“You were born to be a soldier, a warrior,” she said. “It is a pity you were also born to a time with no great wars to be won.”

She stepped back. Gaelien’s skin was warm where Urvi’s fingers had touched, and her face prickled with heat as well. She swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth.

“There are always wars to be won,” she said.

Urvi inclined her head. “Yet you fear peace will not suit you as well as battle did.”

Gaelien’s first instinct was to turn away, brush off Urvi’s words, and armor her heart again. She swallowed past that, remembering her own _great responsibility_ , and managed to say, “And you, Urvi? What place did an astronomer and naturalist have in a land at war?”

“We each have our place in peace and war alike. I hope you find your place as I did mine.”

A cryptic answer, to be sure, but Gaelien wasn’t sure what else she had expected. “Perhaps,” she said in a flash of daring, “our places will be the same, going forward. We may yet be married, after all.”

“Indeed.”

“And would you like that, if it came to pass?” She wasn’t sure what answer she was hoping for, or why it seemed to matter so much.

Urvi smiled, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement for a moment. “I would not be opposed to enjoying it, if you continue to be as fascinating as you are.”

No one had ever called Gaelien _fascinating_. She opened her mouth, closed it again when she realized her mind had supplied nothing for her to say in response.

Urvi bent and gave Gaelien a chaste kiss on the cheek, barely a feather-touch of skin to skin. “And you?” she murmured, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “Would you care for marriage with an enemy of your land?”

“Not with an enemy,” Gaelien replied. “We are not enemies. I would like to marry a friend.”

_Or perhaps more,_ her mind supplied, but she kept back those words.

***

In the days that followed, it was as if whatever wall had been between them had suddenly crumbled. Urvi smiled more often and spoke more warmly, and their conversations over dinner were markedly more comfortable. Gaelien was not the only one to notice; she caught her mother giving them approving looks, and Arodien smiling when she saw Urvi so clearly more content.

They spent evenings in Urvi’s rooms, speaking of their homes and people. Gaelien learned of the great cities of Gahana, of the observatory that Urvi commanded, the sprawling gardens overflowing with every sort of bloom. For her part, she told Urvi of growing up within the white walls of Minas Tirith, in the glory of the Reunited Kingdoms, and of her captainship in Ithilien and South Gondor.

“What sort of life was it, living out in the field and far away from your family?” Urvi asked her one night. Gaelien was writing a letter to Aradien; her sister still oversaw the territories in Umbar, and though Gaelien rarely got a response from the more absent-minded of the twins, she often wrote to update Aradien on the situation in Minas Tirith. At Urvi’s question, she paused, lifting her pen.

“I enjoyed it. It’s far more stifling, here in the city. I liked the freedom.”

“I have never been so far from the home of my parents alone,” Urvi mused. “But I often went stargazing. Sleeping under an open sky is better than sleeping in a building, I must agree.” She paused, then added, “But you fought often, no? My people, and others?”

“We battled your people, yes, but also those remnants of Sauron’s army—Orcs who had fled southwards. Those were always stubborn and hard to eradicate.” Gaelien dipped her pen in the inkwell, set it to her paper again.

“I met an Orc once.”

Gaelien glanced up. Urvi sat in the bay window, legs drawn up to her chest, eyes fixed on the starry sky visible between the curtains. “Met?” she echoed. _Battled_ , she understood, _encountered_ , perhaps, but not _met_.

“I went into the Shadow Mountains, to one of the taller peaks, because I needed height and a clear sky to make observations of a meteor shower. And I went alone, because I desired solitude.”

_Foolish_ , Gaelien thought, but that was unfair. Urvi was no fool; it was far more likely that she had simply been too wrapped up in her expedition to consider the risks. “And you were ambushed?” she asked instead.

Urvi shot her a strange look. “No.”

“What, then?”

“I had completed my observations and was returning to where I had left my horse when I heard a noise. It was near dawn, and there was light enough to see by, so I investigated. There was an Orc mother there, in a damp cave, with a child.”

“A _child_?” Gaelien repeated, unable to keep the horror from her voice. Bad enough that there were Orcs running free in Ephel Dúath, but if they were _reproducing—_

“I know what you’re thinking,” Urvi said. “But they are living beings, the same as us.”

“Not the same.”

“The _same_ ,” Urvi insisted. “That Orc—she saw me in the mouth of the cave, and her first instinct was to push her child behind her, so she was between me and it. Her first instinct was to _protect_ someone other than herself. I held up my hands to show her I was unarmed and alone—”

“You let an Orc know that you were alone, with no weapons? I marvel that you are still _alive_.”

“Gita.” Urvi’s voice was a gentle reprimand. “Let me finish.”

Gaelien’s protest died on her lips. _Gita_. It was the first time Urvi had called her that, and on her tongue, even spoken in irritation, it sang with tender music.

“I approached the Orc,” Urvi continued, folding her hands in her lap. “I gave her some of my food, because she obviously had not eaten in a long time, and she gave the better portion of it to her child. We spoke—she understood me, and knew a few words in my language—and I offered her the protection of Gahana, but she refused. I left her with what supplies I could and told her the safest way out of the mountains, to the lands further east.”

“What lies further east?”

Urvi gave her a guarded look. “I have heard tell of a community there. A peaceful place founded by those left kingless when Sauron fell. I thought that perhaps even an Orc might be welcomed by such people.”

Gaelien’s first response, which she was sure Urvi could read on her face, was horror. An entire _community_ of enemies of Gondor? But no, Urvi had said _peaceful_ , and as hard it was to swallow back her instincts, Gaelien was learning to trust her.

She nodded and said with some effort, “I wonder if she and her child made it to safety.”

Urvi’s face smoothed with relief. “I wonder the same.” She turned back to the window, and Gaelien bent her head to her letter again, but did not pick up her pen.

There was such a gentleness in Urvi, one that Gaelien had not recognized in her through all the wildfire of her anger when she first arrived in Minas Tirith. Her first instinct on seeing an Orc was to help her, while Gaelien’s sword would have been aimed for the neck before either of them could speak. It was not foolishness, or childishness. It was an entirely different and kinder way of seeing the world.

_Perhaps,_ she thought, and did not know how to finish. The edges of the thought were hazy with possibility that looked like gold-brown eyes under a veil of shifting red.

_Perhaps._

***

Gaelien was undressing for bed one night in late January, listening to the way the snow needled at the shuttered windows, when a knock came on her door. She nearly tripped over herself in her haste to cover her body with a robe and swore as her toe struck the bedpost. Grimacing at the stabbing sensation, she limped over to the door, clutching the front of her robe closed.

She was expecting Arodien, or perhaps a servant. To her surprise, she found Urvi there instead. There was a long pause, during which Urvi’s eyes swept from Gaelien’s unraveling hair to the hand holding the robe shut to her feet, one of which was still smarting with pain. Gaelien realized she was holding the foot in question several inches off the ground and hurriedly lowered it.

“Good evening,” she said, and that was _not_ heat rising in her face, she was _not_ blushing like some maiden. She’d been more naked than this in front of her soldiers—such were the perils of camping with the rest of the troop—but she had never felt as self-conscious about it as she did now. Urvi’s clothing was impeccable, as always, soft layers of green silk and chiffon that accentuated the curves of her body.

“If this is a bad time, I can return in the morning,” Urvi said, amusement in her voice.

_Yes, it’s a bad time_ , Gaelien’s mind said. “It’s no trouble at all,” her traitorous tongue supplied instead.

She stepped aside, and Urvi entered, glancing around the room. Beyond the blue woven carpet that lay under the bed, the candlelight illuminated only stone gray and dark wood.

“It’s not as comfortable as your rooms,” Gaelien muttered. “My apologies.”

“Very much the rooms of a soldier,” Urvi replied. “What is the tapestry?”

Gaelien followed her pointing finger to the only decoration in the room. Hanging above the bed was a banner with the White Tree, surrounded by seven stars. The stars glimmered subtly in the light, woven with jewels that refracted the meager light and multiplied it.

“My mother wove a great banner for my father during the war against Sauron,” Gaelien said. “It was much like this one, but larger, and with a crown. He flew it first at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and it hangs now in the throne room. When I was very young, I told my mother I wanted one just like it. She wove me this one—without the crown, for I will never rule, but a fine piece of craft in its own right.”

“This city is full of beautiful things,” Urvi murmured, and when Gaelien turned towards her, her eyes were fixed on Gaelien, not the tapestry.

Gaelien was not wholly inexperienced in matters of love. A summer dalliance with a daughter of a noble in Dol Amroth, a few trysts with fellow soldiers. This was the first time she had felt so unanchored. Urvi was someone new and strange, burning bright like a fire in the desert, the honey-sweet of her voice kindling yearning in Gaelien.

Urvi touched her face with the very tips of her fingers. “If you do not wish me to stay here, only say the word,” she breathed, and Gaelien knew she did not only mean this room, but Minas Tirith as well. “But know that I would regret the leaving.”

Words raced through Gaelien’s mind, each more insufficient than the last. Should she be thanking Urvi? Telling her to stay? Saying she would marry her? There was the treaty, but the treaty did not seem to matter in this moment, in the golden glow of the candle, under the woven stars. Poetic declarations were not her province, had never been, but there was a feeling rising in her chest that begged for release, for fulfillment.

She leaned in and kissed Urvi.

Urvi gave a gentle noise of surprise, her warm lips parting against Gaelien’s. Gaelien cradled the back of Urvi’s head in her hand, tangling fingers in her thick hair, and she could feel Urvi’s mouth yielding against hers. Her robe had fallen open, her naked front pressed against Urvi’s dress, but she was beyond embarrassment.

Gaelien pulled back. Urvi’s lips were red where Gaelien’s had met them, a glow of red in her cheeks. Gaelien suddenly wanted to see her lose her composure even more, to see her undone and moaning against her.

“Stay,” Gaelien whispered. Urvi nodded.

They tumbled back onto the bed, Urvi’s thigh pressed between Gaelien’s, and Gaelien could feel her hardness through the layers of thin cloth that her fingers were feverishly trying to tease apart. After a minute or so of Gaelien struggling with the unfamiliar fastenings, Urvi made a noise of frustration and sat back to undo her dress, slipping the pale green cloth from her shoulders and torso, revealing smooth, dark skin.

Gaelien pressed kisses to her throat, her chest, lower. Urvi made sounds that brought heat rising to Gaelien’s cheeks and between her legs. Emboldened, Gaelien rolled over on top of Urvi to straddle her, running hands over her body, and for the next few minutes, lost herself in the pleasure.

Afterwards, they lay tangled on top of the sheets, bodies heated with their coupling, Gaelien’s arm thrown carelessly across Urvi’s soft stomach. Urvi yawned, and said, “I wonder if the entire city heard you just now.”

Gaelien ducked her head, embarrassed. “You were hardly quiet yourself,” she muttered.

“Curious. So brave in battle and so hesitant in bed.”

“I’m not hesitant,” Gaelien protested, cheeks flushing with heat.

“Show me,” Urvi challenged, a gleam in her eyes.

Gaelien laughed and kissed her, then proceeded to demonstrate again just how confident she could be.

***

Her armor dug into her torso where the Haradrim spear had crushed it inward, and every breath hurt her bruised chest. This was familiar to her in the same way the iron taste of blood in the back of her throat was, a memory or dream or vision of a path she had trod more times than she could count.

“Captain!” one of her soldiers shouted. She turned to find another Haradrim bearing down on her, a snarl twisting his face. She parried his first blow, but his second struck her across the head, sending her stumbling backwards with her head ringing, the noise of the battlefield going distant. A bloom of pain at her throat, and she lifted her hands to where she had been struck. Her fingers came away soaked with bright red.

All around her, her soldiers were falling, their blood soaking into the earth. Every person she had shared a meal with, trained beside, commanded through their first battle—all of them fallen, faces twisted with their last moments of agony.

The Haradrim who had wounded her grabbed her head and yanked it back, exposing her already bleeding throat. Gaelien looked up into merciless eyes.

“Please,” she said. “Spare them. You can have my life, just let them live—”

He raised his sword with a laugh.

Gaelien came awake with a jolt and lay still for a moment, limbs tensed, instinctively scanning the room for a threat. It took what felt like an eternity for her to force herself to relax, though her heart still battered against her chest like a galloping horse.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. There was nothing here that could hurt her. She wasn’t in battle, she was in bed beside Urvi.

Urvi.

She rolled over to face her. The snow outside had stopped, the clouds had cleared, and a thin spear of moonlight fell across Urvi’s face. Her bare chest rose and fell with the deep breaths of sleep, dark hair a tangled halo around her head. In the silver light, she looked so achingly vulnerable that Gaelien’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to reach out and wrap her arms around Urvi and never let go.

_Yes_ , she thought, a gentle exhale like the feeling of coming home at last, _yes, I think I can spend my life with this woman._

***

February arrived, and was soon near spent, with March looming on the horizon. The year was drawing to a close, and all of Minas Tirith was beginning preparations for the twenty-fifth of March and the celebration of the new year.

On the last day of February, Gaelien woke to find Urvi already awake, head propped in one hand and gaze on Gaelien. Thin winter sunlight streamed through the slats in the shutters, catching stray strands of Urvi’s hair and setting them afire with gold.

Gaelien smiled, still lazy with sleep. “Are you ready?”

Urvi nodded and kissed her forehead. “I am.”

They dressed and descended the stairs, Gaelien leading Urvi to the throne room. She paused outside the great double doors that led to the throne room. Within, she knew, Aragorn and Arwen and the rest of the court members and diplomats would be waiting. Her heart stuttered with a familiar anxiety at the thought of walking in with all those eyes on her.

Urvi’s hand crept into hers. When Gaelien glanced back at her, she gave a reassuring smile.

They entered the hall together, hands entwined, and made their way down the length of the room, past the rustling crowd of people gathered to watch. Gaelien focused on the warmth of Urvi’s hand and on taking slow, measured steps.

Aragorn rose as they drew to a halt before the throne. “Gaelien,” her father said, and through the solemn formality, she could see the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “What is your answer? Do you accept the terms of this treaty?”

“Yes,” Gaelien said. Her voice rang clear and loud. “I wish to marry Urvi.”


End file.
